#40. Tell.

He touches his cufflink before he says it,
a half-turn, quick, gold catching then losing the light,
then names his uncle, the minister,
sideways, not quite to anyone,
as if the fact had simply occurred to him
somewhere between the fish and the question left on the plate.

I don’t know whether the pause is fear,
a man rehearsing his one good line
in case the table forgets to ask.
Or the opposite – he has always simply believed it,
the way you trust a floor, most days, and walk
– a sign works the room whether or not he means it –
Something else, maybe: he’d have said any name, anyone’s,
just to keep the shape of himself
in front of the room a moment longer.

There is a word for this, probably, some old one.
I don’t reach for it.

I notice my own hand at my collarbone
before I start telling you this,
some small adjustment already underway –
and time my pause the same way,
right before his name.